


Seen That Face Before

by invisibledeity



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blackmail, Choking, Coercion, Dehumanisation, Drowning, F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Light Petting, M/M, Negging, Non-Consensual Kissing, Obsession, Other, POV Second Person, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Please don't read this if you don't want to selfinsert your WoL into this story, Reincarnation, Unhealthy Relationships, Will be Explicit, WoL is any gender in this fic, because bad things happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2020-07-27 03:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20039245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledeity/pseuds/invisibledeity
Summary: Instead of Ardbert coming to visit you when you return from Il Mheg, it’s Emet-Selch who pays you a visit in your bedchamber. It's the start of something bitter.





	1. Hanging Round My Door

**Author's Note:**

> Lord forgive me, this is what I want to see of Emet-Selch. I know my tastes run dark, but a few of you out there might feel the same. So here you go, a shameless and dark fantasy of a character that makes my blood run cold. I love a good complex villain.  
Mind the tags.

‘Try and get some rest,’ Alisaie says. She stands at the centre of the Musica Universalis, and she’s eyeing you with curiosity. Around you both, the markets are awash with noise, and, despite the sour end to your trip back from Il Mheg — courtyards and troubling revelations — business continues on as usual. Animated voices, materia for sale, coffee and caramels exchanged for coin.

The others have all left already. So many tasks to attend to. It makes sense, after what happened in the courtyard, that everyone should seek to busy themselves. Anything to fight on, anything to keep feeling in control of their fates.

But you appreciate Alisaie checking up on you. She feels so much, and so keenly, even as she tries to hide it with her fiery exterior.

‘I mean it,’ she continues, because you haven’t replied yet and she’s still eyeing you. ‘Don’t carry that weight all the time. You won’t help anyone if you’re exhausted like this.’

You haven’t wanted to let down your guard, and now it feels hard to do so, and terrifying, as if your limbs will give up on ever working again the instant you relax. But you relent, you agree to rest, because too much hope is riding on you for you to squander it on some vain, stoic display. After telling her you’ll take her advice, you leave Alisaie to the lure of the markets, and make your way up the wide stairs to your private quarters. The Pendulums are quiet at this hour; everyone who has anything to do is already out on the town, in the gardens, in the workshops and eateries. But the silence is welcoming, and you sink into it with every step you take upward. Stairs spiralling out, and yes, your room is right at the top. The Crystarium’s version of a penthouse suite, and oh, the Crystal Exarch shouldn’t have been so kind to you.

The bed looks inviting, but first, a quick look outward, to see how far you have come.

You lay down your weapons, then cross the room, step by aching step. You throw wide the shutters, and emerge out onto the small balcony. By the Gods, the sky looks beautiful: dark and beaded and heavily-expectant. You did this. It’s hard not to feel a rush of warmth to your chest. Another region, claimed; another shred of darkness returned to a burned-out world. You bask in this soft comfort for a while, until the multitude of stars make your eyes glisten and your breathing turn deep and measured.

A sudden noise behind you catches your attention. In a quick instant you’re turned around, looking back into the room, expecting Ardbert again, despite the fact that the noise seemed more _corporeal_ than what a mere shade might be capable of. You want to talk to Ardbert again, you do. There’s so much you want to ask him, because absorbing the Light from Titania was taxing, more so than you let on. It felt different this time, and it troubles you.

But what you see when you turn around is a very different figure. The man from the courtyard, with his rusty, wavy hair in its awful, badly-cut bob, and his devious joker’s grin painted beneath curious, rounded eyes. The wolf in Imperial clothing, the _Ascian, _who by all rights should be fighting you instead of offering his help_. _He slouches in place as he stands, as if the effort of remaining fully upright is secondary to his purpose. His shoulders are broad despite the slouch — that and his dark layers of clothing make him seem to take up too much space.

Your stomach pitches.

Solus, you say, what are you doing here?

His grin cracks wider, and he raises a hand in a half-shrug, a flourish.

‘You can say Emet-Selch, you know. You’re not in the Fae Kingdom any more, no need to avoid using one’s true names. Or did you forget already?’

You fix him with a glare. You consider saying Solus again, just to piss him off. And he seems to pick up on this intent, clear as day. He leans in, a small step that has you bristling.

‘I don’t much care what you call me,’ he says, ‘as long as you keep it interesting.’

Not interesting enough already, you ask, and he stares at you, and laughs.

You suddenly feel too exposed on the balcony. You step inside, and he smiles at how guarded you move. You’re edging towards the dresser, where you’ve left your weaponry. And he matches you, pace for pace, skirting the other side of the room.

‘Hah hah! Don’t be scared! Honestly, I expect more from the Warrior of Light,’ he says, curving the insult into a tease. You feel your eyes narrow. You could make a break for your weapon now, you would probably reach it before him, but then there’d be a fight, and that’s the very last thing you want to bring into the Crystarium. You’re here at the grace of the Exarch, after all, and he has enough on his hands.

You consider your options, and eventually, you stop moving.

‘Aha! I knew you were better than that,’ he murmurs. It’s not a compliment. You contain your glaring, and you ask him slowly, carefully, because you still don’t trust him, if he’s truly come here to help.

His response to this is to make a derisory noise and shrug the question off, like you’re a child, like you’re _silly._ Then he stops, and his eyes widen. He’s noticed the dining table spread. He spends a moment taking it in, those impossible eyebrows arching like a caterpillar’s back.

‘Sandwiches! He sent you sandwiches… and, hah, look at all this fruit!’ He picks up a persimmon, twirls it in the air, sets it back. Fixes you with that wry and suggestive grin again. ‘One might be forgiven for thinking he _likes_ you.’

Then he turns, gestures in the air. ‘Is he watching now, perhaps? Through that big mirror of his? Hey,’ — he barks — ‘Exarch! Are you watching? Do you see me?’ Those last words he drawls out, singsong, like a child at play. Then, snap back to you, still and focussed all a sudden. ‘He doesn’t, you know. He thinks you’re still out on the balcony.’

You did that, you ask. How?

And you think you spot a shimmer in the air. A shimmer that reminds you of the Light’s shroud. You are loath to take your eyes off him for more than a second, but you turn your head anyway, because you have to check. And yes, between you and the balcony now that shimmer grows stronger, and behind it you can see a perfect simulacrum of yourself, standing staring out into the balmy night like nothing ever happened.

He waits patiently for you turn back to him, and you find him looking at you like anyone else might look at the food on the table and gods, he looks _famished_.

So you ask him, why are you here?

‘Ah, straight down to business, is it? Well, far be it for me to deny you. Now,’ he says, coming in closer, ‘what I really wanted to do was talk to you one-on-one, because your treasured friends are keeping something from you.’

You waste no time in telling him you don’t believe him, and he moves one elegantly-sleeved hand to his mouth as he’s taken by mirth.

‘Hah, you really put that much faith in your friends?’

You do.

‘Well,’ he says, and _still,_ he can’t stop laughing, ‘my first name alone should give you a clue over who you should trust more.’

_Emet_, you whisper, barely above your breath. You have no idea what that should mean. And so, you glare. He seems pleased.

‘Those cross features become you!’

He’s far too close already. Again, you consider the weapons. The distance that separates them from you. A leap, a grasp, a quick hit and a rebuttal — and a ton of grief for the Crystarium. No. Not yet. You tell him to stay where he is, and he tells you that you’re a fool for not paying attention.

It doesn’t seem to matter, how much you tell him to _go away_. It doesn’t have any effect. Well — that’s not strictly true. A tug like the draw of a magnet in the air, a little pit of gravity as he looks at you, and yearns. His hand moves towards your hip, and you’re scarce believing what you’re seeing. You move to intercept, gripping his wrist before he makes contact.

He barely falters.

‘I haven’t told you yet. What they’re… what Urianger isn’t telling you. That little problem of the Light inside you… Did it hurt, absorbing the Light from Titania?’ He scans your face for a tell, and you hate yourself for giving it to him. ‘Aha!’ he says, and he’s so pleased. ‘I knew so. Well, I hate to break it to you, but it’s growing out of control.’

It’s _what_, you say, teeth gritted. You grip tighter on his wrist, and how warm it feels.

‘He didn’t even tell you it’s killing you! Poisoning you from the inside out! Not awfully friendly of him, if you ask me.’ A gleam in his eye. ‘But you know why it is. He thinks you capable of mastering such immense power.’

The way he says it, you wonder if there isn’t some disdain there.

He anticipates this reaction, like he’s reading your thoughts.

‘And I have,’ — he stares deep into your eyes — ‘_every_ faith you can do so, too.’

You ask him now, is that what you came here to tell me?

He smirks.

‘But what if he were to think you incapable, for whatever reason? Would he cut your adventure short, perhaps?’ He wrestles his hand free while you process the thought. And, by the time you realise he’s threatening you, you’re at a loss and he’s moving in again. You’re transfixed by the white streak at the fore of his hair, your mind skips and you hardly know what to do. Inside: _can’t let him convince Urianger to abandon my quest. Can’t let him._

But you can’t let him get any closer either. It’s the way his eyebrows tease up when he looks at you, it’s that curl of his lip, like there’s something he’s trying to control, something that goes beyond his own awareness. It feels dangerous, and the last thing you want to do is trust him near you.

No. No — it’s all you can say. Whatever _this _is, his motive, his weird fascination with your party, with _you_, you would rather it stop.

‘Gods, stop being so _boring.’_

You wonder now, if you’re boring enough, maybe he’ll leave you alone. Or would that seem too enticing a challenge? You’re torn, and in the time it takes you to wonder, he gives you his ultimatum.

‘Let me,’ he says, moving his hand to your hip again, ‘see what you’re worth, and if you play nicely, well. I won’t sway him.’

You twist away, and he tuts. So condescending. So disgusted. It makes you burn, because you still can’t figure out if he likes you or hates you.

While you’re trying to figure it out, he moves his other hand to cradle the back of your neck, and he’s speaking low into your ear.

‘I’m sure I don’t need to threaten you. You understand the penalty.’

So tell him, you say. Tell him and we’ll see who she believes. And at this he smiles, and says, ‘Well, I’m sure the presence of a few Sin Eaters inside the Crystarium walls should help.’

This stills you. The thought of Eaters inside the city — could he even _do _that? You don’t want to find out.

Emet-Selch lets his eyes rove down — that same look he gave you in the courtyard, the one that chills you to the bone because it’s like it should _mean_ something — and his fingers hook under the fabric of your clothing.

At first it’s like something has surprised him. A shock of static, or a surge of aether, as your skin makes contact. His eyes say as much. You’re not sure what that means, because you barely feel anything other than the warmth, and the shame burning in the pit of your belly.

‘Feels strange, doesn’t it?’ He’s assuming you’re feeling the same thing as him, and you don’t even know how to respond to that.

And then, for a moment, you think you feel it too. Something different in your veins, something _ancient._

_ Please_, you say, and your voice is strained, almost squeaking. It brings him such delight. He carries on, hand roving over your skin, inching down.

Is he testing you? To see if you’ll cry? To see if you’ll ask him to stop?

You promise yourself you won’t. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

The closeness, the angle of his body up against yours, every physical cue makes you think he’s going to attempt to kiss you. But his face grows stern, it’s full of judgement, and not a hint of that earlier teasing. It’s a gaze that seems to say _this is nothing, _and it carries the weight of aeons.

He doesn’t kiss you.

The knot in your belly grows tighter. You feel more like you’re being frisked by security than anything, and yet, there’s something _else_ there, isn’t there? Something barely noticeable, a flicker of a sensation hanging like crystal shards in the air.

You withstand his touch for a few seconds more, until you decide that _fuck_, no, this isn’t happening, and you push him away with both hands before he gets too far below the belt. You don’t want to pass whatever test this is. You tell him, whatsoever he should try and rain down upon the city, you can deal with it, because that’s what you _do._

A frown on his face, one that makes him almost pout.

‘And here I thought we understood each other,’ he says. A shrug, those slim arms moving all animated. ‘Ah, well, you can’t say I didn’t try.’

Your every muscle is tensed. You’re waiting for him to do what he promised; you’re waiting for his hand to raise, for a click of the fingers, for the tell-tale sounds of a beast tearing through the Crystarium walls down below. But nothing happens.

You consider saying _was it all a lie? An empty threat? I thought you were all about the truth. _But you say nothing, because why tempt fate?

He withdraws, vanishing into shade like he’s stepping through a curtain, leaving you shaking and confused. The last thing he says, ‘Such a disappointment.’

And then you are alone.

You stay still for the longest time, mind racing, unsure if you’re really alone. What if he’s still watching? Hovering nearby? Gods, what if _Ardbert_ saw all this? But the empty room offers no reply.

Eventually, you force your stiff muscles into movement, and you go over to the dresser. There, your armour and your weaponry sit in their discarded glory, utterly useless in the moment. You feel aching, you feel sad, you feel everything all at once, and there’s still the problem of the Light growing inside you.

If what Emet-Selch said was true, if it is poisoning you, how will you stop it?

You catch your own troubled gaze in the mirror, and glower at yourself. The idea of asking him for help is not something you want to consider, but it’s there, hanging in the corner of your mind nonetheless.

That night, it takes you a long time to fall asleep, still running on high alert, feeling watched from every angle. The curtains remain thrown wide to the soft, deep darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to be Urianger he refers to instead of Y'Shtola, because I mucked up my timelines


	2. Like a Hawk Stealing For The Prey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the Rak'Tika Greatwood is not without its surprises

The Rak’Tika Greatwood is overcast and humid as hell, but you barely get the chance to drink the atmosphere in before he appears. He surprises your party from behind, as soon as you’ve crossed the shallow rise that leads into the wood proper, a grove lined with trees impossibly tall.

Thancred notices first. Brow narrowing in that way of his that, lately, has come to mean he’s pushing for a fight. Then, past you, a familiar form walks. Boots sinking into gentle soil, long coat swishing in the inertia from the slow, leisurely pace. Emet-Selch. His presence is unmistakeable, it takes up every inch of space between you and Urianger. It’s a dark cloud passing over a field, threatening it with rain.

You all come to a standstill. The damp ground squelches beneath your feet.

‘What are you doing here?’

Emet-Selch ignores Minfilia’s question.

‘No lands must remain beyond our grasp,’ he says, as if addressing a war party. ‘Go forth. Conquer! Rule!’

The canopy is thick but even still, light streams in. And you should be torn in wonder at the sight of the great forest, but all your attention is drawn to him. Arms spread wide beneath the light-dappled boughs, he looks like a saint. Until he turns back round, and you see only dark humour in his eyes. No saint would watch you like that.

Emet-Selch continues his speech, and now he talks of how he misses _those halcyon days_. How pleased he looks when he talks of subjugating ‘primitive peoples’. He stands there like an old friend, all smiles and slouched shoulders, as if this is nothing more than a leisurely jaunt.

‘If you’ve brought your ivory standard, I’d be happy to tell you where to stick it.’ Thancred, snappy as ever.

‘Really, now.’ Emet-Selch looks disappointed, and something about that makes the success-loving part of you wince. You know he expected more of you all, he expected _better_, and it brings back that age-old worry that you’re not so much a hero as an incorrigible people-pleaser.

‘I come here offering help,’ Emet-Selch continues, and Thancred continues to glower, ‘but you really are trying my patience.’

It is strange how on-cue everything happens. A wild creature, some hard-shelled insect thing the size of a dog, has been trundling up the rise in your direction and now, having realised intruders are here, it makes a sudden bolt for your group. Emet-Selch is closest, and he has just enough time to shower a pitying glance on you all before he slides subtly out of the way. It really could not be better placed, for the insect flies straight for Minfilia, who screams.

Emet-Selch stands back, and watches. Even takes the time to lean on one leg, hand braced on his own hip. He’s the perfect image of idleness, and it infuriates you. Infuriates Thancred even more, but he’s too busy jumping up to her rescue.

Minfilia doesn’t really need the help. She is nimble enough on her own feet, and she scares off the insect with a few swipes of her daggers, striking its shell not hard enough to injure it, but enough to frighten. Kindness in every movement, despite the fact the situation does not ask for it. She looks pale, and you suspect she really doesn’t like bugs.

Now that the danger is over, Thancred fixes all his attention on your unrepentant stalker.

‘What in all hells is wrong with you? I thought you wanted to help?’

‘Mmm… no.’

_You literally moved out of the way so it could attack her_, is what you all are thinking, but nobody says it. Perhaps because nobody wants Minfilia to feel any worse.

‘I spend enough of my energy just accompanying you,’ Emet-Selch elaborates, looking from person to person in amusement. He makes some idle comment about the sheer amount of light despite the forest’s thick canopy, about the weakening effect it has on him. It’s a feeble excuse, because he’s standing even closer to you now than before, and he knows about your Light and so do you, and he doesn’t register even the slightest discomfort. ‘What?’ Emet-Selch adds, his tone dipping into vitriol as fast as lightning. ‘Would you rather I watch you from the shadows?’ 

It’s almost childish. It’s like he can’t quite control his disgust.

‘Looks like we’re stuck with him, then,’ Thancred mutters, loud enough for Emet-Selch to hear, and that’s definitely intentional. He forces himself to un-tense his muscles, and sighs out his frustration, gets ready to continue on. ‘Just — cut the commentary.’ Normally, Thancred might add an _if you please_, but not today.

Emet-Selch shrugs. Accepts his lot. He’s back to his uncaring, uninterested façade, and you recoil internally. You really can’t figure him out.

Urianger casts his eye over you all, then, with a raise of his slim eyebrow, he says, ‘Let us not tarry.’ He walks on, and you follow.

The trek through the forest wetland is uncomfortable and surreal. Emet-Selch walks alongside you as though what happened in your bedroom is a mere fantasy, and keeps his hands to himself as though he would never dream of touching you. The very image of politeness and decorum, although, beneath that façade you feel violence. You remember he let some of that violence out in the courtyard, when he had gotten emotional over… gods, you can’t even recall now. It had seemed so unexpected at the time, and quite unlike how you expected a grown man to act. The same had happened in the Crystal Exarch’s hall. So now, you find yourself, quite against your will, wanting to not exacerbate that side of him. It feels like a baseless thing to worry about, with how pleasant he’s being now. His sugary-sweet demeanour coats the air around you, feels like oil on your skin. You almost want to plunge your hands into the swamp water, green and algae-filled as it is, to purge yourself of the sensation.

Urianger does not talk much now, and the only noise Thancred makes is the occasional comment to Minfilia, checking she is okay. The silence becomes unbearable, so you make conversation with Emet-Selch. He’s walking so close to you, you might as well use what time you have to know the enemy, so to speak.

You ask him. Why choose this form? What is so special about it? Because you’re trying to understand why he would go to the extra trouble of making himself look like his old self. The other Ascians you’ve met have less attachment to the physical.

‘Curious,’ he says. ‘_You_ really want to know more about _me?’_ A small laugh, one that gives you enough time to doubt your attempt at pleasantries. ‘Well, far be it for me to deny you.’ There’s something not quite right about the way he says that. It feels like it holds a double meaning, although, you’re not sure what. You know you’re probably just projecting, after the bedroom, after the other night.

And he tells you. He explains how, after so many, many years of existence, one ends up most comfortable with one’s original form, like returning to an old friend. Unlike some of his compatriots, he says, he has _consistency_, he has _stability._ ‘My dear friend Lahabrea jumps too much from host to host without ever altering their form — he can never make up his mind.’ And then, he tells you how he does it. How the Garlean Empire made it so easy for him back on the Source, making empty clone bodies of Emperor Solus for him to jump into. And how, here on the First, he simply — gods, it makes your stomach churn to think of it — jumped into the nearest unwitting body and _shaped_ it to the form he desired, from the inside out.

‘Mortal flesh is but a vessel into which we pour the elixir of our souls. It’s a small matter to manipulate such a thing, once you have control over aether.’ Emet-Selch waxes on, hands gesturing in the light-dappled air, as if he’s a teacher taking his class out on an inconsequential field trip. But then his expression darkens, his gaze grows voracious, and he eyes you up again. ‘I wonder what it would feel like if I did it to you?’

Behind you both, Thancred walks in measured step, his every footfall a judgement on Emet-Selch. You can well imagine he’s pretending the ground is the man’s face, by the way he does it.

‘You,’ Emet-Selch says, not missing a beat, ‘would know _intimately_, wouldn’t you?’ And Thancred, who has clearly been listening, glowers.

‘Yes, wonderful lot, you folk are.’

Emet-Selch shrugs, and the acid in Thancred’s words glance off him. Thancred says, ‘I think I preferred Lahabrea.’ More acid this time, but again, Emet-Selch acts unbothered.

For the rest of the walk, you hear Emet-Selch’s words afresh, like they’re being spoken directly into your ear. _I wonder what it would feel like if I did it to you?_

When you finally meet Y’Shtola, Emet-Selch ghosts on you. Disappears the instant you’re ambushed by her hunters. He says you’re _committing the cardinal sin of boring him_, and this makes you bristle (and again, uncomfortably, want to prove him wrong despite the fact you don’t owe him _anything) _but as Y’Shtola greets you with all her charm and power, casting her aether-filled eyes on your auras, you can’t help but wonder why he would not want her to see him. Perhaps she would know something you don’t.

The fact she thinks you are a Sin Eater at first, thanks to your Light-filled aether, means that Emet-Selch was not lying. This is uncomfortable.

Later, you talk to Thancred. You find him sitting outside, near the entrance to Slitherbough. He’s got his thousand-yalm stare on, and it makes something heavy ache in your chest.

You greet him, snapping him out of his thoughts.

‘Y’Shtola’s done well for herself,’ he says. It’s so Thancred; distancing you both from the weight of his thoughts by talking about someone else.

You agree. The Night’s Blessed are a pleasant people, and Slitherbough, their home, is a haven in the wilderness. There is no doubt it’s been the perfect place for her to develop her attunement to the aether.

But despite the peaceful ambience, you can’t help but feel overly alert.

‘He could still be watching. Well, that’s hardly a question now, is it?’ Thancred has noticed you glancing around.

‘I don’t trust him,’ Thancred says, ‘although that’s already obvious.’

You consider telling him about that night, in your private quarters. But Thancred, he would be too quick to enrage, he wouldn’t let something like that go. He would put a spanner in the works, and much as you are grateful for that in theory, it would serve no purpose here. The mission is far more important.

‘I’m just glad you’re here,’ he says at length. ‘I always feel a lot safer with you around.’

You smile, and you see the corners of his eyes crease up. The closest he gets to a smile these days.

It’s still early, and there is a lot of time yet before Y’Shtola’s people will trust you enough to help you find the ruins. It is just as well, because you need the time to think. You tell Thancred you’re going for a walk. You need to know the lay of the land on your own terms, and you need to clear your head. He nods, tells you to be careful.

Something about this place feels so nostalgic, calling up memories that don’t exist. Maybe it’s the heaviness of the air in this green-grey swampland, tapping into some ancestral feeling. It feels sad. Lonely. You can’t put words to it more than that; you just want to reach out for something to make that feeling stop. You can see this place as it should be, without the endless light streaming in. How rain-heavy clouds would hang low to the canopy, how the raindrops would disturb the glassy swamp water, make it ripple and plink.

You wander on, imagining yourself as some ancient creature of millions of years past, evolving out from the swamp water to finally walk on land. In this place, it’s easy to regress. To connect with the nature around you. Beneath those wide, waterlogged boughs you feel incredibly small, and somehow it takes the pressure off, much as it makes your heart _ache_.

It’s not just you. You’re not likely to forget the way Emet-Selch had waxed on about his past in this sombre and sodden landscape.

And there, as if to speak of the devil, he appears. You tread softly around the side of a large tree and you see him only metres away, by the water’s edge. Watching the surface of the pool like it’s a crystal display. He is lost in thought, and for a moment he looks normal, ordinary, _relatable._

Of course he notices you arrive. He does not turn to look at you, but the corner of his lip curls up into a smile. His eyes stroke the water’s surface; you can practically see it happen, so intimate his scrutiny. You feel more on edge than ever, and that crawling feeling is back, heightened with every inch that shortens between you.

‘Are you not with your friends?’ His voice is like silk, rippling in the wind. He’s teasing you again.

You shake your head, cautiously. Just getting some fresh air, you say, because you needed to think.

‘What a shame,’ he says. ‘And here I was, thinking you people believed in friendship and unity above all else. Here I was, thinking that _I_ could be your friend.’

Something feels off. The air around you, heavy, as if it’s about to rain. It would feel better if it just went ahead and did. You have already considered leaving, you considered it the instant you saw him, but why give him one more reason to let his patience with your group wear even thinner?

‘You see this lake?’ He beckons you over. The water is glassy and stagnant-looking, but as you peer in, you realise it is in fact teeming with life. Algal blooms, tadpoles, and pondweed gives it that thick, green colour. All your earlier wishes of plunging your hands into it to cleanse yourself dissipate like early morning mist.

You don’t really want to come closer. You’re thinking _What would it feel like if I did it to you,_ and the thought is firmly embedded, and refuses to leave. What would it feel like, what would it feel like? Is he going to reach out for you again?

You have to stop quivering. It’s unbecoming of a warrior.

So you obey him, and it’s mostly out of petulance. You want to show that you’re not scared this time. You can stand next to him and not allow yourself to be troubled by him, of course you can. So that is exactly what you do. All the while, you ignore how pleased he looks.

_What about this lake? _you ask.

‘Well,’ he says, ‘look at the activity there, thrumming beneath the surface. Feeding off the detritus. I can think of no clearer illustration that death brings life.’

You start to feel ill.

He notices, of course he does. Beckons you forward all the more.

‘Perhaps this will help you clear your head.’ His eyebrows sink down from that jester’s curve into something narrow and hideous, and he grabs you, so fast you have no time to react. One hand firm on the back of your head, the other on your shoulder, your upper back, and he submerges you in the water. His fingers entwine in your hair, holding you fast.

You protest. You reach for your weapon, but he gets there first. Flings it away to land with a soft squelch in the mud many metres away. He grips your hands, bringing them round to the small of your back and holding you firmly by both wrists with one iron grip. His other hand stays fast on your head, keeping you under.

You struggle, and struggle. Your ears are half under water, you can’t hear what he says clearly. Something soft, teasing; it sounds like _There, there, shush, you can handle this._

Your heart runs double beats and you realise with horror: he’s going to drown you in shallow water. _He’s going to fucking drown you._ Curses run through your head, unable to make it out of your mouth for fear of letting the water in. You’re kicking and splashing, making as much of a noise as you can despite the fact he’s got you at a disadvantage, despite the fact you know you’re too far out from the settlement. Nobody can hear you.

You can’t hold your breath any longer.

A second after you choke and lose the last of your breath, after the bubbles have gasped their way up to the water’s churning surface, he lets you up. He cradles you as you catch your breath, as you cough up water thick with slime.

‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ he says, ‘I’m not doing this because I care. I just want to… hmm, shove you around a bit.’

And then you’re under the water again.

This time he doesn’t push it. He lets you back up before you really start to buck.

‘If you can’t handle this,’ he says, his words colder now than ever before, ‘then you don’t stand a chance of holding in that Light.’

You curse. It glances off him, inconsequential as a fly. He’s unshakeable.

He looks at you, the way an owner might look at a pet, so full of love and disappointment. It makes you feel _hollow_. He strokes your sodden forehead, cleaning away streaks of algae. A small _tsk_ from his lips, lips that you find yourself focussing on because you’re in shock and exhausted and he’s close, too close.

And oh, how he steps away like nothing ever happened.

‘Work harder,’ he says. ‘Give me a reason to believe in you.’

You can’t believe what you’re hearing. You want to swear again, not that it would affect him much. And you try and cut your astonished expression, because he’s obviously delighting in it. He’s given you space, obviously intending you to collect yourself and continue on with what you were doing before you interrupted him — and damn, you wish it hadn’t been that way round.

_ But what about… _You stare at your own soaking clothes pointedly.

‘Tell them you went for a swim.’ He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but you’re not buying it. He sighs, dramatically, pauses for effect, then shrugs those gangly arms. ‘I’ll give you this one for free. Down at the bottom of that lake is what you seek. The algae isn’t the only thing that’s alive in these waters.’

You heave in breaths — you’re pretty sure there’s water in your lungs, and it burns, _fuck_, it burns — and you look back at the lake’s surface. Ripples still play out from where you were held under, where you splashed.

‘Now leave,’ he says, but you don’t do so immediately. You hesitate, because this can’t be how it goes, surely? He just tried to drown you, he can’t just stay there and make _you_ leave, as if you’re the one who has done something wrong. A small hesitation is all it takes; he comes in close, fast as a shadow under a sweeping light, and before you know it he’s at your ear, whispering, ‘Go. You’re good at following instructions, after all.’ He grips your upper arm, tight enough to pinch, and when you yelp his lips brush your ear. ‘I’ll be watching.’

Your muscles tense, you hiss out breath, but it’s too late. He’s gone. Only trees and shadows and rays of pearly light surround you now. But it doesn’t matter how empty the space around you; you feel his presence as keenly as you feel the blood throbbing in your own overworked veins. You spend one last, troubled look at the lake — imagining what secrets lay beneath it — and then, with a shake in your step, you retrieve your weapon, and work your way back to the village.


	3. Night Waiting for the Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which truths are uncovered at the Qitana Ravel. Emet-Selch is desperate to prove himself, and our poor WoL cannot quite grasp what his true aims are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your encouragement, people. Pleasant dreams, if this is your thing.  
Enjoy your catharsis, if that is your thing.  
Otherwise, mind the tags.

He was right about the lake.

You obsess over this back at Fanow, once the pyramid is out of the way. How perfectly everything had been set up. The chambers in the rock below the lake, the open mouth of the pyramid, the cavern’s secrets seemingly rising up from the ground to reveal themselves to you… Until the Eulmorans had interrupted and Y’Shtola had been sent over the edge.

Runar speaks the least, for once. You’ve quite enjoyed his cheery nature, the way he informs you of almost everything you pass by, sometimes useful, sometimes meaningless, in that amiable lilted accent of his. But now he is still, unmoving as an oak, sitting on the rattan chair in the corner of the gathering room. He’s not even looking at anyone directly, and by the Twelve, his expression reminds you of Thancred’s, after Minfilia — the old Minfilia — disappeared into the Lifestream.

Nobody knows what to do next, so it’s almost a welcome break when Emet-Selch interrupts the proceedings once more. This time, he enters the room as a blundering captive, fenced in by Fanow archers who waste no time in telling you they’ve caught ‘one of your gang’. Any other person and you’d be forgiven for thinking they simply were no match for the archers’ prowess. But it’s the way he saunters, listless and hunched like a belligerent schoolchild, that gives you pause. He’s only here because he allowed it to happen, that much is clear.

‘I was _bored,’ _he says, after he catches the whole group staring at him. You all must have disbelief painted on your faces, because he looks put out.

Thancred makes his distaste vocal. ‘Heavens above, and here I was hoping we’d seen the last of him.’

All he gets from Emet-Selch is a pout. It’s uncomfortable, almost suggestive, and Thancred hisses out his breath and turns away.

Now Emet-Selch shrugs his fur-trimmed shoulders, and takes some decisive steps forward.

‘How did you fare after the Ravel?’ He’s focussed entirely on you, and somehow the group does not pick up on this as anything out of the ordinary.

You fix him with a stare. You’re trying to understand his motive. And — gods, his eyes are travelling over your body, from toe to top, examining you and sparing no inch.

‘Fighting fit, I see. Keep up the good work.’

There’s a glint in his eye, the same hungry stare he wore when he visited your chamber, and you think about the other things he said. _Oh, I won’t be fighting. I like to watch._ The idea that he was watching you fight the emissary from Eulmore, the idea he was watching every movement, every thrust and parry, sends you into shivers —

— and he holds you down beneath the water once more —

You can’t breathe right, you can’t fucking breathe…

He continues.

‘I told you, didn’t I? That it would only serve to strengthen you.’

Nobody notices the moment that passes between you and him. Or rather, they notice, but they fail to see it as anything other than the usual unease you all exhibit when he’s around. You’re almost impressed at his cleverness.

‘Alas, but there is one grand presumption in thy utterings,’ Urianger says, cutting short Emet-Selch’s fixation on you, and for this, you are grateful. At this moment, you would hardly mind if Urianger started reciting the damn dictionary aloud, for the fact he’s removed that unbearable spotlight from you.

Emet-Selch raises an eyebrow; a caterpillar curve that only serves to irritate. _Yes, what? _he says without a word.

‘Our party hath not yet made it through the Ravel’s labyrinthine tunnels,’ Urianger begins, and you can feel the sigh upon the air as the whole room hopes he will not use his considerable linguistic arsenal to full effect. You can hardly focus on what’s in front of you as it is.

Thancred takes over, for everyone’s sanity. ‘We have a different problem,’ he says, and he avoids looking at Emet-Selch’s face, presumably lest he get the urge to punch it, you think. He explains, in clipped tones, about Y’Shtola.

Emet-Selch takes a moment to study everyone’s expressions. Last of all, Runar’s.

‘’Tis never easy to lose the ones we love,’ he says, and immediately Thancred glowers. But there’s a gentler expression there, hiding behind Emet-Selch’s hard eyes, and you wonder. Why would that be? What do those words mean to him?

That is, until he continues. ‘Well, she is dead, isn’t she?’ Blunt as a rock. And you’re brought back into the present with harrying force. You check yourself: you had been so close to empathy, to considering shedding some small fleck of mercy for him.

It reminds you of how Matoya spoke of Minfilia’s disappearance. Alphinaud had not appreciated her brusqueness, but from Matoya’s pont of view, she had been as considerate as she could be. Perhaps, then, it was something that went with the territory of being old, and if that was true, well, Emet-Selch had considerable years on Matoya.

You drag your thoughts away from Idyllshire and that calm and secluded wee cave of Matoya’s, and you focus on the present. They’re not arguing, but talking loudly, Emet-Selch as ever on the verge of irritating Thancred to violence.

They mention Y’Shtola’s use of forbidden magic, and Emet-Selch talks about the disturbances in the Lifestream as though feeling such things is second nature to him. For a moment he seems childishly embarrassed by his ability to sense the Lifestream, and you’re caught out by the innocence of it. He actually comes up with a plan, and he seems as keen as the rest of you to see it done. This turn of events you could not have predicted.

You are given a lamp.

It’s a simple tool. Like the aether compass, it is to be activated while traversing the land in the hopes it will pick up a residual trace of Y’Shtola’s aura. Emet-Selch tells you the lamp should glow hallowed and pure, and then, then he will appear to conclude the job. You’ve already asked why he is doing this, and he gives the same answer as ever. To win your trust. Then he sends you off, alone, to find the perfect spot, imbued with the Echo as you are.

You wander through the forest with the small bauble dangling from your hand. The canopy is thicker here, and despite the light itching to tear in from way up above, it feels calmer in the thicket, like dusk. You wander, and so do your thoughts.

_ The trust you seem so determined to deny me._

His words won’t leave.

You shake them off, and light up the lamp. Draw in the aether, feel it stick around your soul like resin. Call out to the well of the Lifestream, and wait for Emet-Selch to respond. It takes time to find the right area, but eventually, the lamp glows a warm, comforting orange.

He comes up to the glade swaggering, surrounded by Fanow archers and the Night’s Blessed. They guard him like he’s a caged beast, wont to lash out at any moment. But he, oh, he just looks bored. Eventually, he tells you all to back off, like an artist shooing away adoring fans from a precious canvas.

He speaks of Y’Shtola’s soul as having colours. He holds his arm up in the air, index finger pointed out, the way a summoner traces patterns to cast their most complex spells, and at once the air shifts around you. A deep tug at your belly, a well of gravity that makes you gasp and look around fervently, as though your surroundings might have changed. Everything remains the same, but for the space before Emet-Selch, glowing now with silvery threads of what must be the Lifestream. You catch the expression on his face. As serene, as blissful as if he were enjoying a long drag of some favoured drink. There’s a small, wry turn to the corner of his mouth. He knows just how in control he is right now.

It’s so different from how the Elder Seedseer performed the same task some months earlier. When she did it, with her teeth gritted and her brow fixed in concentration, it had been a real task, one she had been keen to complete. But he, he seems so utterly in the moment, feeling every part of it so intensely and without shirking any part of the experience.

If you didn’t distrust him so much, you might find this admirable.

When he finds her, he goes one step beyond the efforts the Elder Seedseer made and sees fit to clothe her on her way out. Y’Shtola falls to the floor in full attire, gentle as a feather.

Of course. He’s an Ascian, and with that comes a certain dexterity when it comes to magic. Curious, how much smoother his extraction was, compared to the Seedseer’s. She who had so much experience. Who was widely acclaimed to have such _connection_ to nature. She paled in comparison, and this fact is uncomfortable.

It’s not hard to shove thoughts of Emet-Selch out of the way when you’re finally reunited with your old friend, but still, you do your best to keep one eye on him while Y’Shtola awakens, greets you, smiles. Now, Runar’s expression changes, and his old self bursts through again. He sweeps her up like a groom would a bride, or perhaps like a servant would their one true god, and you finally lose that heavy weight.

And of course, Y’Shtola’s response is to tell him to stop crying.

It’s an abrupt cough that cuts her reunion short. Emet-Selch asks for some acknowledgement, brazenly, from the edge of the group. Runar’s brow twitches and he puts Y’Shtola down, lets her brush out her gown and turn, regal as ever, to face her rescuer.

She thanks him, and his face lights up like a child receiving gifts at Heavensturn. There’s something so innocent about that, but on him the expression jars, buries into your mind like a needle. It feels like puerile vindication. All of a sudden your skin is swimming in the gross, sticky swamp water again and you want to shake the imaginary liquid off and leave.

But that would just be all the more rude, would it not?

You control your breathing.

Y’Shtola announces that she needs a drink. She lets Runar guide her back to Fanow, and he is all too eager to be of service.

Everyone else filters out, leaving you alone with Emet-Selch. The shadow at your back feels like it’s growing again, and you want to rid yourself of that slick swamp-water sensation. You’re already fishing for the aether lamp, ready to give it back to him and have your business concluded.

He smiles at you, and shrugs.

‘Consider it a gift.’

You feel your mouth hang open. You wonder if he’s joking. But somehow, words fail you.

Some way off, Urianger picks up on it, and turns back to check on you. Emet-Selch gives him a sort of mock-salute, then disappears into shadow like all Ascians are fond of doing.

The Crystal Exarch is impressed when you return to Lakeland. It’s nine in the evening when you get there, and already the heavens are turning and the night has drawn in like a soft blanket, starry and ink-blue. Syrcus Tower stands tall and electric, all the more impressive for the darkness around it.

By now you have traversed the Qitana Ravel, found the Lightwarden at its broken heart, and absorbed its power, killing it in the process. You have seen the murals at the end of the ruins, you have heard what Emet-Selch proclaims to be the true creation myth of the world, and like everyone else in the party, you have had your faith shaken.

The chalk-streaked outlines of those cave paintings follow you home; Zodiark in his bulbous, flan-like form, and Hydaelyn with her spread open sea-angel curves. Intertwined, suffocating each other, imprinted on the inside of your eyelids.

You can feel the strain on your body from absorbing so much light, but you decide not to mention it. You watch Urianger for a tell: something, anything that will indicate how much he’s worrying. But he seems unconcerned. Maybe you’re doing better than you thought. Maybe Emet-Selch was right, maybe he did make you stronger.

Enough. There is one more Lightwarden before attention turns to Eulmore. One more night of rest, and you will be at it again. You break away, and get an early evening.

Again, you find yourself marvelling at the Exarch’s needless hospitality. You follow the winding staircase right to the top, push open the walnut-wood panelled door, and find—

The sandwich platter is half-empty, and _he’s_ in your bed. He’s taken his gloves off, and his ridiculous boots. Gone, too, is the fur trim bolero with its embellished shoulder pads. Beneath, he wears a shirt-jacket, still flamboyant but a few degrees less so, and it’s plain enough to let him nestle in the covers comfortably.

What in all the heavens is going on? Your breath quickens as you consider raising some alarm. But Emet-Selch is — he’s not _doing_ anything, aside from sleeping.

You pause. Look at that fur ruff, those gloves, lying by the bed in such a haphazard mess. They would look ridiculous, comical, on anyone else. Why does it fit him so well?

For the briefest of moments, you entertain a dark notion. You imagine your hands round his neck, holding _him_ down this time. You imagine his voice, unable to escape his throat, the choking sounds he would make.

That’s not something even remotely appropriate for a Warrior of Light to do. It makes you feel uneasy, but nonetheless, you cannot deny its presence in your mind. At least the one difference between you both, you think as you look at his chest rise and fall in slumber, is that you will not act on it.

You sigh, although it’s more of a huff, and over in your bed he stirs.

When he looks at you, comfortable, groggy, brows softened around his faintly-bewildered eyes, you think for a moment he looks as harmless as a child. He catches your expression — you’re aware you’re staring hard — and he smirks, dashing the illusion.

‘I am rather fond of sleep, you know.’

As if that is an excuse. You glower, and his smirk only broadens.

‘Fine, have it your way.’ He drags himself to sitting position, again with that characteristic slouch of his shoulders, as if he’s not quite ready to be alive, much less awake.

The situation is entirely disarming. You’re not sure whether to demand he leave, make a fuss, be on your guard, or what. He’s hardly posing a threat.

You ate my sandwiches, you say. Why?

He starts to laugh. ‘Is _that_ what you’re concerned about?’ A sniff, a glance back over at the unfinished platter. Is he considering having more, you wonder, and you catch yourself because that thought is so bizarre. ‘My compliments to the chef,’ he adds.

Okay, look, you say, why are you here?

He stands up brusquely, making you start. Another small laugh. All he does next is stretch and proceed to pace around, heading to the window, where he turns, and looks directly at you, full of purpose.

‘When I was standing before the mural,’ he begins, ‘I felt—’ His eyes soften, his brow twitches. ‘I felt a thump in my chest. Electric, as you stood beside me. It’s not—’ He turns to you, and now his gaze is intense again. ‘It’s not something I expected to feel.’

You know what he’s talking about, because you felt it too.

Your silence serves to confirm it for him, and when he steps forward, the room feels like it’s shrinking. It doesn’t take much for your to panic, because you’re tired and at your wit’s end after this intrusion. You draw your weapon and gather your strength.

‘Oh, really… Enough with that.’

In a flash, everything changes. You don’t even see what happens, not clearly, but you see the bending of light around some dark orb of gravity, and there’s the flare of black-purple energy you’re used to seeing from other Ascians — half-shadow, half-flame, churning and roiling like a dark sea. Your weapon clatters to the floor and something indescribable, invisible, grips your body, pins your arms to your sides.

You cry out in surprise, you swear, and he just laughs. _Let me go_, you say, but he does no such thing. It’s probably time to scream louder, but your throat feels uncomfortably dry. Around you, a strange shimmer in the air; the same veil he used to shroud you both, the last time he appeared here.

He’s got you cornered now.

Why are you doing this, you ask, in a croak of a breath. When you—

He studies you. Looking for the rest of your sentence. Finally, you bite down on the words like hard candies. _You only think I’m half a person. _You say this quietly.

His retort is instantaneous, and just as biting as yours. ‘Seven thirteenths, to be precise.’

It shouldn’t hurt but it does. It must be painted on your face plain as day, because he says ‘Oh, no need to look so upset! One can hardly help being an incomplete _thing_. I don’t hold it against you. Much.’

_Then why do you look so dissatisfied with me?_

You ask him if he’s come to test your strength again, and as you force those words out of your dry, dry throat, you feel fear, because _what will he do this time_, with you so utterly at his mercy?

He casts his eyes to the side, almost rolling them, as though what you have said is boring.

Okay, you think, so this isn’t about testing your strength.

A strand of silver hair falls away from his brow as he tilts his face up to yours, to the light. He’s hypnotic, a creature out of time, and the way he moves, it’s like he’s seeking blessings despite knowing he needs none.

‘It’s been a long, long time since I have felt _something._’ His eyes search yours. ‘Indulge me.’

_ Why? You don’t consider me a person._

But there’s really no time to say anything. Emet-Selch’s lips meet yours in a heavy crush. You can’t twist away, and you shout into the kiss, try to unpin your arms from where they are held to your sides. He breaks off — you feel his lips curl into a frown against yours. A flash of anger crosses his features.

‘Why are you — all of you — so determined to deny me?’ He gesticulates wildly now, and you fear he will hit you as he does so. ‘I am trying my _utmost_! The least you can do is afford me some courtesy.’

And this is your idea of courtesy, you say. Gods, that fire in his eyes, there’s more emotion there than you had ever expected to see from an Ascian, and it’s unnerving. He grabs your chin, fingers pressing into the soft flesh under your jaw without mercy, and you’re forced to splutter and stare. More struggling. You need to understand what that magic was that he used to subdue you, make sure it never happens again.

Instead of saying anything in response, he crushes his lips to yours again. He kisses you like he’s resorting to eating a dollar meal after years of fine dining. He’s disappointed with himself, but he needs something, anything, and you are it.

This time his hands travel, through your hair, down your back, your shoulders, your waist. That electric feeling is clawing its way back up from where you buried it, and you hate how attractive that sensation is. You hate it because nothing about this is romantic, or special, or desirable. You don’t want to feel anything _stir_, you don’t want to be the idle amusement of a bored cult leader.

The knowledge that he could go further is not lost on you.

When he has had his fill abusing your mouth, he steps back and looks at you with such warmth. For a curious moment there’s something like loss there, but he covers it well.

‘You,’ he says with self-assured satisfaction, ‘have a lot of work to do.’ And he turns, finds his bolero, shrugs it onto his shoulders. He takes his time putting his boots on, smirking to himself all the while, for you still cannot move in your bonds. You’re left wondering if, by those words, he’s referring to your kissing skills or to the battles to come.

‘Ah, hear that?’ Emet-Selch, now dressed properly, cocks his head to the side. His eyes study the thin air. Outside your room, there’s a distant clatter of footsteps, growing closer. ‘You’re quite the popular thing, aren’t you?’

He snaps his fingers as he disappears into nothingness, with the same attentive grace he had shown when rescuing Y’Shtola, and the bonds fall from you.

At the door, a sharp rap.

‘Um, sorry to interrupt!’

It’s Alphinaud. You cough, find your breath, and gods how stiff your lungs feel in your chest. You tell him it’s okay, go on.

‘Right — well, ah, we need you in the Exarch’s hall immediately. It’s about the Eulmorans.’

Your skin is flushed, your head spinning, but as always, you don’t have time to process what just happened, for there are more pressing matters at hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emet is still playing his innocent part, but it all hinges on one very important thing: that the Warrior of Light can handle their task. Up next: Eulmore, and the moment that changes everything.


	4. Strange, he shadows me back home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The change comes atop Mt. Gulg. How easily infatuation turns to anger and disgust.

The construction site is the next place you see him. You’re standing well back from the group, tired but content, as the sounds of heavy machinery echo all around. Sandstone and clay and whirring gears.

Everyone is telling you _well done, _they’re telling you _go get some rest_, but you wanted to stay to see it through. You just can’t let it go, the burden of service. What if Chai-Nuzz needs you for something else? What if he needs more motivation, a scouting party, a quest for more materials? Timber, down by the docks, you could do that over again. You want to please.

A rush of wind at your back, barely perceptible, no more than a light breeze, is what tips you off to his presence. You turn, wondering if it’s more than that, if somehow you knew innately that he was nearby.

Why now?

You didn’t _need_ him for anything, especially not when everything was going so well.

Emet-Selch smiles at you, acting for all the world like nothing more than an old friend. You don’t return the favour. His arched brows dance up as he takes you in, his short, sheer bob of hair bounces around sharp cheekbones. His ruffed collar cradles the base of his neck but leaves that top space between coat and hairline bared to the cold air. He seems at once vulnerable and haphazard; if he is feeling the chill, he doesn’t much care. For a moment, a traitorous part of you wants to relax your muscles, although the far stronger part of you stays alert and with good reason.

You wonder, for the millionth time, why does he feel so compelled to come to you?

‘Engineering is a marvellous feat,’ he says. ‘Did you ask how your dear friend Chai-Nuzz deigns to activate those golems of his?’

The way you understood it, he was getting Urianger and Y’Shtola to activate the Talos hearts through aetheric magic. You tell him this, and he frowns.

‘Shame. I would have hoped he would write the inscriptions on their foreheads. Well. Should he ever need it, the answer is right here in front of him.’ Emet-Selch does a curious half-bow, flourishing a hand outward, and you wonder what it could mean. No time to ask. He drops his act, shoulders slouching once more. ‘Ugh, at any rate, it _is _rather encouraging, seeing the advocates of opulence standing on their own two feet.’

You feel the insult simmering behind those words, and you can’t hide your dissatisfaction.

He watches you, he smiles.

‘Anyone can conquer a people. To truly win them over, now, this requires the conqueror to treat the conquered with dignity—’

You snort. The idea of him treating anyone with dignity seems preposterous.

— and the conquered to let bygones be bygones.’

Forgive and forget, you say. Is this how you ruled your kingdoms?

‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘Why make slaves when you can make respectful wards instead?’ He chuckles, and it’s a hollow, bony sound. ‘But I didn’t come here to reminisce—’

_You could have fooled me_, you think.

‘I came here to commend _you_, my dear Warrior. This conquering business is a difficult feat to achieve, but,’ — and here he spreads his arms towards the sight of scurrying, eager Eulmorans working at their machinery — ‘you have achieved just that.’

You scowl. 

‘It’s a compliment. Take it.’ He sounds so commanding, but his voice holds none of the weaselly undertones it had mere moments ago. You’re taken aback by how genuine this sounds, and you let your scowl slip.

You expect him to smile, or make some sign of satisfaction at winning you over, however small it may be, but he does not. Instead, he keeps looking at the workers mere dozens of yalms away, and you realise he’s looking at them with longing, with such deep nostalgia, as they bicker and smile and work.

‘You keep acting as if I am heartless. But rest assured. If your heart can be broken, then so can mine.’

You watch him cautiously. Where is he going with this?

‘Back when the world was whole, we had family, friends, loves…’ He whirls sharply. ‘Now I only have you.’

For a moment there is only the thudding of your heart in your chest, too hard and too fast. You feel like a tiny creature caught in the gaze of a ravenous coeurl, and the memory of that resentful kiss worms its way back into your head. _You are a last resort for him, nothing more. _You’re struck by that, and no amount of complimenting from him — how real are those compliments anyway? — can change how worthless you feel right now.

He breaks his gaze. Upward, now, to the heavens.

‘And then there was Amaurot…’

_Amaurot. _The name tickles the back of your neck, purrs at your brain like the last unsolved part of a crossword puzzle. Emet-Selch watches you grasp at straws internally for a while, then shrugs. Disappointment leeches through his voice.

‘Not that you would remember.’

You could ask him what he means by this. But, like most things with Emet-Selch, it’s not going to matter what you say. He has proven time and time again that he is the sole commander of your every interaction, and today is no exception. You watch him, eyes steely with indignation, as he comes closer.

‘I wonder if this would jog your memory.’

He traces a finger, softly, up your arm.

_ Why are you so fascinated by me? _You can’t help but wonder. He hasn’t showered any of the others in your party with the same level of attention, but he’s hardly awestruck by your status as the famed Warrior of Light. Unlike Aymeric, unlike Haurchefant, he doesn’t see someone extraordinary to be admired. And still, there’s something else there, tugging him to you like a magnet. _Not that you would remember… _what is that implying?

‘Should you survive the remaining calamities, you would become our equal. Do you have any idea what that means? I suppose not.’ His hand moves up your arm to your shoulder, your neck, lightly fussing at your skin. ‘How I yearn for that day.’

You tug his hand away, worried they will notice. Embarrassed, and ashamed. Any further, you think, and you will stop this foolishness.

He smiles, lets his hand be cast aside, before slowly, determinedly, returning it to position on your shoulder. Then he prowls behind you.

‘They really can’t see you.’

Your eyes dart about. Gods above — there, only metres from you, that same pearly shimmer. The field of illusion he’s so talented at procuring wraps around you like a shroud, barely perceptible at all, and despite the fact that apparently nobody else can see, that apparently they would turn your way and just see you, alone, standing and thinking and doing nothing else, you feel far too exposed.

He strokes your arm. You flinch, edge away.

‘Let me,’ he says, and you say no. ‘Let me,’ he says again, and you feel a soft numbing sensation creep up your arm. It almost amuses you, how he feels the need to use his magic to control you — a testament to your own strength, in a way. But still, you are not as strong as him. And you can’t let this odd alliance get screwed up now, not when you and your friends are so close to success. How could you be so selfish? You would never be able to face them again. So you say fine, fine, and you tell him that he doesn’t need to restrain you. It takes a second, but the paralysis fades as you relax your arms, and you feel him smile against the back of your neck.

‘Sensible,’ he murmurs.

You wait to see what he will do.

‘I could take you right here, right now,’ he whispers. ‘No-one would be any wiser.’ Then he drops the menacing tone. ‘But that would achieve nothing. I just want you to know, I’m choosing not to punish you. You’ve shown _so much promise. _And — ah,’ — he casts his gaze up to the ladder — ‘how I miss that world. The spires of that majestic city. The dedication, the camaraderie, the pure selflessness of its inhabitants. I would give anything to see it once again.’ Now he threads his arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as if you were lovers. ‘I believe you would like it.’

You try to control your breathing, fast tripping over itself with the proximity to him. Warmth spreads up your back.

His lips are soft against your neck, probing, kissing gently. He breaks off to say, ‘And with all your hard work, I think you might just get to see it sometime.’

Then he breaks away entirely, and you almost swoon into the space he leaves behind, so high is your adrenaline. You recover, surreptitiously placing a few extra steps between him and you. He smiles. He’s still close enough to reach out, make as if he’s about to touch your cheek, stopping short by mere inches.

‘But such talk is a pleasure for later. Back to work, hero.’

All of that lordly pretence is back, and he swaggers away, playing the part of the erstwhile disenfranchised leader to absolute perfection. Your chest prickles with heat like heartburn, and your thighs want to wilt to the ground. But you collect yourself, shaking off the oily sensation in your veins. All these clues from this troubling conversation you can analyse later, when the battles are over. Right now, like he says, you have work to do.

Chai-Nuzz seems surprised when he gets everything working again. He must be the only person who doubts his own abilities at this point. You cheer him on like the rest of them, and enjoy the ride up the repaired elevator along with everyone else.

The view from the top is magnificent. The Kholusian countryside itself is not much to look at — mostly arid, low grassland and rocky rubble — but from up on high it seems wild and free and lonely. You make your way to a small village called Amity, where Chai-Nuzz plans on setting up a base of operations to reach the mountaintop.

It’s here that you get a visit from Ardbert. At first, you flinch when he arrives, immediately on edge from the aether you feel in the air. But when you recognise his shimmering, ghostly outline stepping forward to join you, your pulse slows by a few precious beats.

You greet him with genuine warmth in your voice, but you keep it down so any villagers that might happen to be nearby won’t think you’ve completely lost your senses.

‘You okay?’ is the first thing he asks.

You nod.

‘Good. I guess… this whole endeavour is bringing back a lot of memories for me. Seeing everyone working together so well. ‘Course, it was _after_ all of that where everything went to pot. Gods, I miss them.’ He casts his face away, probably hiding tears. ‘So many years… _centuries_… of being alone. But you know? As alone as I felt, I can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like for Emet-Selch.’

Your eyes widen. Had he seen what happened earlier?

He doesn’t seem to pick up on your discomfort.

‘All of this is a long way of saying, don’t make a choice that leaves you alone.’ And now, having said his piece, he returns to contemplating the environment with a mournful expression. His empathy for the enemy is so strong, so _honest_, that it’s little wonder he was such a vaunted Warrior of Light once upon an age.

You appreciate his concern, but all you can think of is _was he watching?_

So you ask him.

‘I know he was there. I know he was waxing lyrical about the world of yore.’ But Ardbert does not elaborate, and you fall to thinking. If he didn’t mention the touching — and he strikes you as the kind of person who would — then there must be something blocking him from seeing directly. Emet-Selch’s doing, or a limitation of your strange temporal connection?

Even if Ardbert has not seen, he is no idiot.

‘Be careful,’ he says.

The change comes atop Mount Gulg.

The Crystal Exarch — no, _G’Raha Tia, call him by his proper name_ — lies in a sprawl, face down on the ground, and the familiar, lurching silhouette of Emet-Selch stands behind him, pistol hanging carelessly from swinging wrist.

Everyone is shocked. The barrier remains up around you. Emet-Selch walks straight through it, strengthening it behind him as you lose control of the Light inside you and bring that unbearable brightness back to the night sky. Thancred swears, lunges forward, and is repelled almost immediately. Urianger’s attempt to blast the barrier with magic makes hardly a scratch. Y’Shtola does not even try; she simply stands there, staff held loose, mouth parted. She knows better than to waste her energy to rage. The Light continues its parade back across the sky, taunting you with every fresh ray; how close you had come to beating it, to holding it in. And all the while, the swing of Emet-Selch’s coat comes closer and closer to you, his silhouette taking up more and more space.

Someone shouts — you think it is Alphinaud — and the words are muffled by the barrier, but he’s telling Emet-Selch not to touch you.

A grin works over that devious face and Emet-Selch looks back over his shoulder, all the careless amusement of a newborn babe.

‘Really, now? Don’t waste your breath — your dear Exarch is still alive and I’m sure you want to keep it that way, no?’

Back to you.

Something slick as oil and twice as sickly works its way up from your stomach. Your realisation is a cold one: nobody can reach you, nobody can touch you but _him_.

You choke, spewing up more sickly splotches of Light.

‘Oh,’ he says, soft as if he were reprimanding a kitten, ‘my dear Warrior…’

He crouches down in front of you, cradles your chin in his hands. Turns your face up to his so you can see his sun-bright eyes, his hard and furrowed brow. The world moves heavy on its axis and you feel everything shift beneath you. _Here is the change._

‘What a disappointment you turned out to be.’

There is no trace of warmth at all in his voice now. He all but spits at you, as the Light-drenched clouds behind him form a perverse halo. The glow invades your senses, too much Light inside and out, and it only makes his dark silhouette seem all the more important in contrast.

You try to speak. A splutter comes out; something milky-white as Auracite dripping down your chin. Liquid Light. It stings like vinegar. Your thoughts are racing between G’Raha, Emet-Selch, the winning Light, the pain in your chest, your head, your _skin_, and you doubt that anything you could have said would have made much sense.

He sniffs. Eyebrow raised imperiously, his gaze boring into yours like you’re cattle he’s considering putting out to pasture. The grip on your chin increases and you can’t help but let some of the Light spill out from between your lips again. As for him, his lip curls and you have never felt so worthless_._ His hand moves to your hair instead, grabs a fistful of it. ‘All you had to do was hold in the Light! But — it appears even a simple task as that is too hard.’ His grip tightens until he’s pulling your scalp taut. ‘Are you trying to punish me for putting my faith in you?’

You wince. Bile gathers under your tongue.

He relaxes his grip but only to reassert it. ‘Why does my faith always end up so misplaced?’ He’s glaring at you like he can’t imagine ever having kissed you. ‘You are unworthy of my patronage.’

It might just be the tugging at your scalp, but your eyes are brimming over.

He does not react with any sympathy, faux or otherwise. His countenance remains grim as he traces a thumb across your lower lip, gathering up beads of thick, milky light. He holds the fluid up to your eyes while your head is held steadfast in the grip of his other hand. ‘Look at this! This — is — pathetic. What am I meant to do with this, hm?’ He rubs your nose, your eyes in it, smears it across your skin. It smells acid-sharp and you buck under his grip, your stomach threatening to revolt once more.

Evidently, Emet-Selch has spent enough time wallowing in his own disappointment. He releases you, and falls back on his heels, wipes his hand on his coat with great distaste before pinching his brow. ‘No… I can still make this work.’ He thinks some more, then looks back at you again. ‘Mm, you owe me that much for my wasted time.’

_ What — what do you,_ is all you manage to say before another flare of pain pierces your head, forcing you to scrunch your eyes up tight. You can hear him laugh, a gloating sound that continues until you open your eyes once again.

When he is sure you are paying attention, he turns away from you. Spreads his arms wide. Theatricality back in bloom and you, the unwilling audience, are forced to listen as he makes clear his plans.

‘Look at you! There’s barely a trace of Darkness left in you! Hah — any fool can see it won’t take long for you to turn fully, _Sin Eater.’_

Rippling sounds of shock from your friends beyond the barrier.

‘Would you like to know what happens once you turn, hm? You will _lose control_, you will lash out at friend and foe alike, reduced to nothing but a gluttonous, greedy hole for their aether to be poured into. Your sense of self will fade, until only a wanton beast remains.’ Emet-Selch grows ecstatic as he talks about it, eyes sparking with a blissful, almost orgasmic energy. ‘And then, you will finish what Loghrif started, and devour this world through your Light. Everyone will die, cursing your name.’

Your skin thrums; everything feels sour. All you can think is _this can’t be happening, _while every foul word you’ve ever learned trips up on its way out of your still-dribbling mouth. You don’t understand his changes in demeanour at all — how he could go from cradling you in his arms by the elevator to being so thrilled to watch your descent into madness? His fascination with you — had it really all hinged on this, your ability to hold in the Light? The fact you had been kidding yourself there was something more, the fact you had even wondered, reeks of dependency, of neediness, and you feel sicker for even thinking it.

Well, perhaps it is easier to change your mind about someone’s existence when you only think of them as half a person.

Or maybe this had been his plan all along. You doubt that, though: he strikes you as too passionate a man to rein in his anger.

_Stop thinking — it hurts._

You become aware that, while your mind has been racing, Emet-Selch has been batting away the angry comments made by your friends. Alphinaud: ‘I knew we should never have trusted you!’ Y’Shtola: ‘I’ll tear you limb from limb myself.’ He seems to find their protestations amusing.

Now he stoops down to you once again. You’re sick of his goading, smug face by now, but you find yourself lacking the strength to look away. His brow softens ever so slightly; his lips part. _Why do you suddenly look so concerned for me, _you wonder. _None of this makes any sense._

He whispers, soft and close to your ear, and his voice sends electricity down your weary spine.

‘Come to me, in the Tempest. I will at least give you a space where you can complete your transformation, free from prying eyes.’

You can only hitch your breath in pain as your response.

‘My invitation is for you alone,’ he continues, and now that dangerous edge is back to his voice. ‘I will be keeping your dear friend as collateral for my troubles. If you… fail to obey this, I will see to it that he does not enjoy himself.’ He withdraws, rises to his feet, and gives you one last pithy glance before turning away and vanishing, taking G’Raha Tia’s ragged body with him.

As the barrier crumbles, as your friends rush in, you find you cannot hold it together any longer, and you sink into piercing, bright unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: his threats are not idle. You had best come alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Just gotta say. I feel like Square Enix is trolling me with this expansion, after I wrote [that FFXV MMO story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13343793/chapters/30549162) last year.


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